Alta, WY. My front yard:
What if Fall were a Shrieking? A caged van with lights, sirens, wheels coupled to chassis, pouring down the street carrying Hemingway’s dead. You beneath those sucking sodium arc lamps proffered at gas stations and used car lots. In this case, the former. Ancient bones compressed, melted or something, and sent to the surface to be sucked up and given over to moments such as these. Though I wouldn’t want to see an ambulance any other way, not really. They are masters who return chaos to its leash. The grizzly. The macabre. The stunning. Repackaged and sent unfathomably through a rain soaked evening in the back of what looks like a wheeled acid trip. Traffic lights all green. Pedestrian mouths slack with the mild thought that the sky is perspiring and I must find cover. The Great Mind is rent apart, torn from its reality just as those injured were torn from theirs. To bear witness is an act requiring courage; depth and clarity as afterthought or responsibility.
Movement in all directions. Different and new, similar, but finding, seeing and seeking patterns comfortable and re-invented. We now make my home on the west side of the Tetons. Sharp and moody, they rise above the valley floor like 10,000 similes, shark teeth, or saw blades, all destined to cut through these days and last. I’m happy to be here resting my wings.
The blur of fall never fails. Never fails.
I’m coming…I’m coming…
A day and a lake and a girl and a sun and innumerable stones that fairly reek of prophecy. May we possess the time to sit, talk, and find relief(s).
Sunrise — all comes flaring back to life, living, the live. I stand beneath exalted, bathed in caffeine and light. We possess our selves. Allowed to witness there must be no other choice. May what is continue and may we as people find, truly seek, the truth of this earth.
I fly through the woods, legs carrying mind, carrying the core that is idea. The day translucent, sun caught in the trees like a note held. We touch and there is buoyancy in this world, a slight pushing back from boundary. A pulsing. This world trembling, raw, fired and set as eyes in a horses head. The great globe of sun rises, arcs like language, setting upon all us tired and transgressed. Each morning dawn comes silent and wieldy like a blade. Voices mutter. The air still as the day it was minted. Slight smile and terrible reproach for those who first break the yolk of time; the suspension of draining out and away.
Less book, more shade:
OK. Alright. Back toward home. Devil’s Tower, range, and sunset on the way:
